


Hope, Love, Memories

by Drapetomania



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Derek Hale Feels, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Laura Hale Feels, M/M, Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 16:39:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14048427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drapetomania/pseuds/Drapetomania
Summary: "A cup for hope," Stiles said, his finger running across Derek's skin. He was laid out as a grounding weight across his back and legs, ever so slowly, ever so softly tracing the ink of his tattoo. Derek could feel every twisting curve, as if he was being branded all over again but with gentleness, with something so soft that it felt like it filled some of the cracks in his back and strengthened him. Like serenity was being pressed into his chest, planting a warmth between his ribs."A cup for love."A warmth that could grow to take down the walls he'd built, with creeping vines that never ceased to find their way, and build something up from the center, build up on his heart like a fortress - strong and grand, while vast and filled with life and light within."And a cup for memory."





	Hope, Love, Memories

"A cup for hope," Stiles said, his finger running across Derek's skin. He was laid out as a grounding weight across his back and legs, ever so slowly, ever so softly tracing the ink of his tattoo. Derek could feel every twisting curve, as if he was being branded all over again but with gentleness, with something so soft that it felt like it filled some of the cracks in his back and strengthened him. Like serenity was being pressed into his chest, planting a warmth between his ribs.   
  
"A cup for love."   
  
A warmth that could grow to take down the walls he'd built, with creeping vines that never ceased to find their way, and build something up from the center, build up on his heart like a fortress - strong and grand, while vast and filled with life and light within.   
  
"And a cup for memory."   
  
Stiles' hand came to a stop only once his palm was stretched out across the full size of the triskele as if to keep the spell inside, Derek's heart beating heavy, and painfully, once, twice, and a third time, and finally, it grew three sizes. Derek knew what he was been given; knew that he was physically whole only through Stiles' help; knew that he'd been laid out for Stiles to see all his pieces and that the boy had wrapped his arms around them all and had had his back ever since Derek had seen the understanding in his eyes.   
  
Stiles was like the vines, inconspicuous, but ever there. He had crept in, built him up and held him together with the promise of hope, soothed him with the gentle touch of love, and left enough memories to prove his steady loyalty. It felt like pack before Derek could even allow himself to admit it.   
  
The way Derek’s breaths started to rasp reminded him of the distinct sound of lead across an old newspaper, scratching, scratching heavily, over and over, loud enough to compete with all the big city sounds, as rhythmic as maybe the buzz of the fridge, or the honking of cars. There was Laura, staring at the large papers spread out in front of her, but with her gaze focused on a mere corner of the margin. He'd walked in from a nap, it was all the sleep he got those days, making him heavy lidded and muddy brained despite the werewolf regeneration. There were too many nightmares, too many thoughts that wracked his brain if he allowed it to run at full capacity.   
  
But there Laura was, repeatedly following the same lines over and over again, hypnotized almost by the flowing form. Both of them were changed persons now and it had torn at Derek's chest until he'd learned to numb it down to indifference, the only way to survive the pain. Laura still never showed open weakness at all, though he'd heard her fall apart in the darkness of her room before, night after night. She knew how to be strong though, knew how to carry on, but she hadn't lost herself and he knew that then, when he stepped up to her side to see the family crest sketched up on the newspaper and she said, unmoving, "I want a tattoo."   
  
It was quickly organized, for Laura knew how to get things done. She always had. Derek suspected she would have gotten a tattoo even if none of the life changing events had happened, and he thought, she'd still be getting a tattoo, but this was still his fault. It was his doing that she felt she had to burn her family into her skin, as if the scent of the ashes wasn't still wafting with every move they made, as if Peter's unhealing face wasn't enough. Laura never made a sound through all of it, staring boldly at the process, as if daring the world to try to take anything from her again, daring it to try and make decisions for her.   
  
If the nightmares got worse that week, who was to say it had a particular reason. If Laura had to hold him down again as he sobbed with claws extended, slightly bloody from his thrashing, with his fangs digging into his lips, trying to prevent each shaky breath, no one was the wiser where it came from. At least Laura wasn't. Derek had never told her, even when she'd begged him not to blame himself because she thought there was nothing he could have done. He couldn't get it past his lips, couldn't face the look in her eyes, all he could do was shake.   
  
Until the night, when he'd ended up in her arms again, and he looked at her with pale blue eyes, rimmed with red, and asked her for the same tattoo. She didn't question any of his decisions, not even the one to have her execute the procedure. He let her wield fire, and she let him burn, as if she knew.   
  
He'd shaken beneath her just like this back then. His bones had rattled, mind aflame with thoughts of burning whole, because what was left of him anyway, and why shouldn't he feel what they had felt, when he'd sealed their fates, like Kate had sealed the house with ash.   
  
Forgoing hope or love, Derek had carried the triskele like a sentence on his back. It weighed heavily, and rightfully so, he'd thought, it was all he deserved. It weighed heavily enough that even with Stiles now kneeling at his side, he didn't have the strength to move, didn't dare to fill his lungs with air. He wouldn't deserve it, such greatness in a body of despair.   
  
Laura had been merciful in part, as to let him feel the pain, even while running a finger over the burns, to make sure he'd been marked just right. She'd let him take it, let him feel it, let him balance it with the poison in his heart and keep it for himself, while easing it, sharing it with him. Stiles on the other hand, Stiles' hands were telling him to let go of the pain, and let it bleed out. They met it with an undying light that made the dark dissipate, and assured him he'd be caught, like it had all been endured long enough, like he was finally allowed to heal and stand on his own.   
  
The thing about healing was, it was scratchy. It was an itch out of reach and it made Derek want to tear the tattoo off his back, because he didn't deserve it, did he? If he contorted himself enough he could. He could rid himself of the last thing marking him as a Hale. He could wrench himself from the comfort of Stiles' arms and rid himself of any last semblance of himself.   
  
But it was that itch, that discomfort that let him know, he really was healing. It would take a lot more energy to rip the wound open again rather than to give in. Everything was soft around him, the mid morning light falling into the room in a haze, the smooth pale blue sheets beneath him and the gentle murmur at his side. He was the one piece that didn’t fit, he thought, panicking, tensing with the need to flee. He had never been good at fighting anyway, never had enough to fight for. Yet, he wasn’t alone now. A second scent was mixed with his all across the bed, so intertwined it was almost like one and that- Derek couldn't sense anything wrong with that. He could stay, let his edges bleed out to let himself become part of the scene, part of home.

 

Stiles was a murmur at his ear that he could maybe understand if only his heart stopped beating so loudly and he wasn't gasping for breath - so he held it.

 

“Breathe in. Breathe out,” Stiles said softly, and it was the opposite of what Derek was doing now but he listened, lifting himself onto his elbows slightly to give his chest room. He followed Stiles’ counts, until he felt the tension slowly slipping and giving way to weariness, dragging his limbs back into the mattress.

 

“I'm here, sourwolf,” Stiles continued, prompting Derek to turn his head toward him, regardless of the mess he probably looked like. He closed his eyes and leaned in, feeling Stiles’ fingers in his hair only a moment later.

 

“Can-” Derek had to clear his throat to find his voice again. “Can you…” but he still couldn't get the words out. Instead he lifted an arm helplessly, hoping Stiles would get the message. Which he did. Lowering himself down, Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek and pulled him tight against him. One hand came to wrap around the back of Derek’s neck, guiding him into his own neck. Derek gratefully burrowed in, breathing Stiles’ sent in and relaxing into his hold.

 

“What were you… You said something earlier,” Derek managed to get out. Even talking was enough of a struggle, and now Stiles’ skin muffled his words. The male still managed to understand him though, telling by the hum that he let out.

 

_ “ 'A cup for hope!' she said, _

_ In springtime ere the bloom was old: _

_ The crimson wine was poor and cold _

_ By her mouth's richer red. _

 

_ 'A cup for love!' how low, _

_ How soft the words; and all the while _

_ Her blush was rippling with a smile _

_ Like summer after snow. _

 

_ 'A cup for memory!' _

_ Cold cup that one must drain alone: _

_ While autumn winds are up and moan _

_ Across the barren sea. _

 

_ Hope, memory, love: _

_ Hope for fair morn, and love for day, _

_ And memory for the evening grey _

 

_ And solitary dove,” _ Stiles recited, voice flowing smoothly over the words like it was nothing, like it didn’t bring silent tears back to Derek’s eyes. It was like Stiles saw him as that solitary dove, rather than a demon. “It’s  _ ‘Three Seasons’  _ by Christina Rossetti… It’s the, the number three that made me think of it. And my… my mother. She- that is when she knew that it was… over for her she left a different poem by her and I looked into more of them.”

 

Stiles’ hands continuously ran up and down Derek’s back, up into his nape and hair, soothing him via contact, while Derek’s fingers wrapped in the material of Stiles’ shirt. Derek counted his heartbeats over and over again, letting their steady presence keep his thoughts focused on his spark and away from wandering into the dark corners of his mind.

 

“It’s called ‘ _ Remember’ _ . The poem that she left us. Do you want me to recite it?”

 

Derek was silent for a while, contemplating but unsure of what decision to make.

 

“I think you’ll like it. Do you trust me?” 

 

To that question Derek found himself nodding right away. They wouldn’t be in this position if not. 

 

_ “Remember me,” _ he starts,  _  “when I am gone away, _

__

_         Gone far away into the silent land; _

_         When you can no more hold me by the hand, _

_ Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. _

_ Remember me when no more day by day _

_         You tell me of our future that you plann'd: _

_         Only remember me; you understand _

_ It will be late to counsel then or pray. _

_ Yet if you should forget me for a while _

_         And afterwards remember, do not grieve: _

_         For if the darkness and corruption leave _

_         A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, _

_ Better by far you should forget and smile _

_         Than that you should remember and be sad.” _

 

Derek swallowed hard. The emotions were rising again but this time they weren’t so overwhelming. This time he was being held fast, safe. This time his edges were softened enough for him to merge with Stiles it seemed, to share his pain and accept the healing touch - nothing like the pain drain of a werewolf and yet all the same.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and [click here](https://thinminthale.tumblr.com/post/172075776031/when-i-started-writing-this-drabble-or-whatever-it) if you wanna know a little more about the inspiration for this, it'll take you to my tumblr


End file.
